It Only Hurts.....

It only hurts when I touch it. I come back again and again to this place. This pain. This line. It comes from nowhere. And everywhere. The giant whoosh of frigid wind off the lake as a door is opened. The searing pain from blinding light plus pounding head. The wrenching sobs of grief without containment.

So here we are again. White pall. Same priest. Same organist. Similar casket and mourners at attention. This time for a beloved teacher, the grandmother of one of my kids. But the grief does not just settle here for her.

The casket rolls into the back of the church, as close to the baptismal font as it will go. And time bends and the tears fog my eyes because now it is his casket I see. And it is I who am unfurling the white pall to cover it. And it is my friends looking on at the back of the church and me the one at the front of the gloomy parade.

The grief is raw and I can never understand how it swoops so quickly, like a hawk to a carcass, and carries me away.

Ten years, almost, since my father’s death. So many, many nights and mornings that he’s missed. And granddaughter kisses and light saber fights with the boys. It hurts too much to bear at times. And so this grief I tuck away. It’s like a dusty package in the corner of my room. I think I remember what is inside, but when I open it I am surprised beyond my dreams. Like shrapnel come the memories and the tears. And I struggle to put them back to bed.

Then a morning like this, I come to grieve for someone I have loved, who set a strong example of teaching for this path I’ve chosen. And I pack the Kleenex that I think are for her, and I show up at the appointed time.

But as the service begins, the grief takes flight and comes for me. The dark wrath rips me to shreds. The wounds are deep this time. Oh, how I want him back with me.

It takes a while to bandage, these holes in my heart. And the freshness of the wound continues to sting. But I dry my eyes and carry on, because it only hurts when I touch it.